


tangled up in you

by IsleofSolitude



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Changing Tenses, Crowley Was Raphael Before Falling (Good Omens), Crowley is Bad at Feelings (Good Omens), M/M, Mutual Pining, Oblivious Aziraphale (Good Omens), Pining, Protective Aziraphale (Good Omens), Protective Crowley, crowley as raphael trope, low key love triangles, or was he?
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-04
Updated: 2019-10-20
Packaged: 2020-10-09 17:44:35
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,111
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20512232
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IsleofSolitude/pseuds/IsleofSolitude
Summary: Heaven has one final task for Aziraphale.If he does it, Crowley will be safe.If he does it, will things ever be the same between them?





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Time, and my tenses, are wibbly wobbly. My bad.
> 
> Title taken from a Howie Daye song.

_Just a day, just an, ordinary day_  
_Just tryin' to get by_  
_Just a boy, just an, ordinary boy but_  
_He was looking to the sky and_  
_As he asked if I would come along_

_~Vanessa Carlton~_

* * *

It had been an extraordinarily nice day. All days after the cancelled Apocalypse had been nice, all two hundred and thirty-seven of them. 

Nice days were Crowley and Aziraphale spending two or more meals together. Nice days meant smirking at Aziraphale’s attempts to deter customers and grading the attempts, meant thwarting the angel’s efforts to feed the ducks by swishing waves around until Aziraphale’s lips pursed in just the right way, meant spending time restocking their wine cellars because every night was spent together. 

Extraordinary nice days happened a bit more rarely, but was all of the above, but included careful touches and shy smiles and glances that were less longing and pining and more waiting, more understanding and delicious anticipation. 

Today’s extraordinarily nice day had included: brunch at a new mom-and-pop place, where Aziraphale had decided for brioche over pancakes, and Crowley had raised an eyebrow in pleasant surprise at their coffee blend; one attempt at a walk around the park which ended when Crowley decided to crash a photoshoot and Aziraphale couldn’t get him to leave until the angel left first; tickets to a local production of a well known play; dinner at the Ritz. It had also included hand holding across all the tables, shoulder brushes for most of the day, and one almost kiss (Crowley, holding the passenger door for Aziraphale to exit, had almost, almost, dared to close that gap. Aziraphale, as exiting, had blinked so enchantingly that Crowley had stopped breathing, had stopped thinking, and then Aziraphale had nervously slid along). 

Aziraphale had walked ahead of Crowley into the shop, Crowley still holding the door, and then as Crowley had finally taken a breath and gained brain function back, there had been a flash of wards and an electric tingle along the back of his neck that he knew accompanied the presence of _ angels _. 

“Aziraphale!” He slammed the Bentley door shut with the momentum of running towards the bookstore. Crowley’s hand burned as he touched the doorknob, and he hissed as he pulled it back. “Aziraphale!” Banging on the door did nothing, the wards hot against his hands in warning. Crowley ran his hands through his hair and circled the bookshop, testing how far the wards went. When it became apparent that the entire bookshop was boasting wards that were _ not Aziraphale’s _, the demon let loose a few of the lovely cusswords he’d pick up after a millennia or six. The windows were closed, and no matter how hard he focused, no sound was drifting out. Returning to the front door, Crowley stalked back and forth on his small portion of the sidewalk, waiting.

* * *

Forty-five minutes into the Damn Night, Crowley felt the wards dissipate. Leaping forward, he threw open the door, heart pounding in his throat. “Aziraphale!” 

Aziraphale was standing primly in the middle of the shop, hands folded at his stomach, facing the antique register. Or, more accurately, facing the angelic archangel who stood just as primly near the counter, arms crossed impassively, no expression on their black and gold face. 

At Crowley’s exclamation, Aziraphale half turned and smiled weakly at him. “No harm done, Crowley.” He didn’t have his lying voice activated, but it was obvious he wasn’t okay. Crowley approached his right shoulder and then circled behind him to stand at his left, eyes darting from one angel to the other. “Uriel here was just leaving, I believe.”

Crowley did not smile so much as bare his teeth in full. “What a shame.” His hands twitched--with the need to fuss over Aziraphale, with his need to throw Uriel as far away from them as possible, with the need to lock the door and open a bottle--and he could feel his wings tremble on the other plane.

Uriel looked between them and nodded. “Yes. Well, Aziraphale, I’ll leave you to it, then.” The archangel walked towards the door. As she passed them, Crowley almost didn’t notice how he and his angel turned as one to keep an eye on her, just barely caught Aziraphale’s attempt to stay between them until the point she was almost to the door and Crowley was fully between her and Aziraphale--incidentally, the first moment Crowley could breathe properly since the wards had first flared. 

It wasn’t until the electricity left his shoulders that Crowley spun to face Aziraphale, hands running over his shoulders, turning him his and that way. “Are you hurt? Did she try anything?”

Aziraphale bore it graciously, then grabbed Crowley’s hand in his and tugged them to the back room. “No, my dear, she just wanted to talk.” His hand shook in Crowley’s and the demon hissed. 

“Talk? What did she _ want _, angel? Somehow I don’t think she wanted to play catch up with the traitorous principality.”

There was a snort, then a glass of wine was being shoved into Crowley’s hand. “Obviously. I don’t think any of them really appreciate a good conversation.”

Crowley gulped at his glass, still stressed. “Get on with it, angel. What did she want?”

“Ah.” And Aziraphale fiddled with his glass, standing next to his chair instead of sinking into it.

The demon’s gut began to twist, not in a physical sense, but his ‘Aziraphale has done something stupid’ sense was definitely starting to notice something. “Angel, you did...you told her to go fuck herself, right?”

“Crowley!” And even his exclamation sounded guilty in a way it hadn’t in millenia and oh no.

“Fuck off? Bugger off? Take a hike, a long walk off a short cliff, something like that right angel?”

“....Not in so many words…”

Crowley groaned and set his glass down. “Aaaa-zir---aphale! What did you say to her? Please tell me you said you weren’t interested in anything she had to say and that you twiddled her fingers until she decided to leave?”

“Er, well…” And then Crowley’s glare got to him and he cracked. “Oh, Crowley, it’s just that I agreed to help them find--”

“----NO angel, you didn’t--”

Aziraphale’s stuttering explanation was drowned out by the sheer force of Crowley’s exasperation and anger.

“Really, angel, why, why!?” He began pacing again. “What could they offer to make you want to associate with them again, we are retired!”

Aziraphale looked down. “Safety.” 

Another snort, this time from the master of disdainful, disbelieving scoffs. “You’ll never be safe with those idiots.”

“Not on my own, no.”

And Crowley froze, eyes rising slowly to the angel. Aziraphale was dressed in his usual affair, with his white-blond in its usual state of artfully disheveled--the one fashionable part of him. And instead of fear or shame or uncertainty, as was usual when he had conversations with Heaven in the past--even when he had been in their good graces--there was nothing but a recognizable resolve everywhere--the set of his shoulders, the look in his eyes, the angle of his jaw. 

Crowley sighed and spilled into the couch, propped his feet onto the coffee table, and held his glass out for a refill. “Something tells me I’m going to need to be much more drunk before you tell me what we are getting into now, angel.”

The angel gave his glass a generous portion and then sat heavily in his own chair. “In exchange for my help in this one last thing, Heaven offered to give me full pardons and protection.”

“Sounds like a good deal so far…”

“I turned them down.” 

And oh, Crowley didn’t want Aziraphale to work with Heaven anymore--they were on their side!--but to turn that down...He drank to give himself a moment. “I bet they didn’t like that.”

“They didn’t. At first. But I, what’s the term, countered them?” Here Aziraphale drank, then looked down as if his glass held all the answers. “They agreed to offer the full protection and pardons to you, as well.” Aziraphale’s lashes fluttered as though he was fighting not to look up. “That was when I agreed to help.”

Crowley had to swallow more than once or twice to be able to speak. “Shouldn’t have done that, angel.” He took another sip. It didn’t help. “S’not worth the ordeal of working with them.”

Aziraphale looked at him then, calm and fierce and honest. “Your safety is always worth any cost, Crowley.”

Well. What could he say to that? 

They drank in silence for a time. When Crowley finally regained the ability to think, speak, and exist, he was proud of his voice for cooperating as he casually asked, “So, what is they want you to do, anyways?”

Aziraphale leaned back in his chair, sighing. “Apparently, I’m to find the archangel Raphael.”

Spontaneous discorporation was just a myth, Crowley reminded himself feverishly. No matter what he felt like in this moment, he wasn’t dying. 

“Heaven’s missing an archangel? Why you? That’s pretty...above your paygrade, innit?”

Aziraphale shrugged. If Crowley wasn’t looking so close, didn’t know him so well, he would have missed how carefully Aziraphale was picking his words now. “Apparently, they believed he was dead, but facts aren’t adding up.” Here, he looked amused and appalled at once. “Did you know, I really believe they had a sit down for the first time and realized their facts didn’t add up? Truly appalling management style, truly.” Cleared his throat. “Anyways, they want to get to the bottom of it, see if he’s alive or dead or whatnot, but it’s believed the answer lies on Earth.”

“And you’re the resident earth expert.” 

A nod. “Exactly.” Then there’s a guilty shift, a look, and a sip.

Crowley narrows his eyes and sat up. “Is that the only reason?” He asks, silkily, and oh the guilt increased and the demon is intrigued. 

The angel wiggles miserably. “Who knows with Heaven? Their ways are inef--”

“Angel.”

Aziraphale sighs. Sips. And resolutely does not look at the demon. “There may be another reason.”

“Really.”

The words come out in such a rush Crowley can’t understand them, even after 60 centuries speaking nervous Aziraphale. He chooses instead to stare impassively until the angel is compelled to repeat it.

“We have the same stardust, I was made after him, you see, and well, that forms a connection they think might be useful in the search, and well…”

Crowley doesn’t let himself react, or else he may just implode. Can’t let that happen. He focuses on breathing, in and out, and not allowing his brain to think of the fact that his angel was made of the same star stuff that made an archangel. He ignores Aziraphale’s worried gaze, and then the realization that he missed the opportune moment to kiss Aziraphale before all this shit went supernova hits him and he lets his eyes close and fall back onto the sofa with a groan.

And it had been such a nice day.


	2. Chapter 2

_I've been around the world and never in my wildest dreams_   
_ Would I come running home to you_   
_ I've told a million lies but now I tell a single truth_   
_ There's you in everything I do_

_~Imagine Dragons~_

* * *

Two in the morning found the bookshop illuminated against the dark of the night. Lamps were lit at a reading desk, and there were numerous bookmarks holding spots in the haphazard stacks of books. Pages of notes had been elegantly calligraphed, ink still drying on the last question mark.

Research, Aziraphale had decided, was the next step--much to the dismay of Crowley, who had thought the best idea was to get smashed and figure out how to tell the angels the deal was off. 

Aziraphale, despite what Crowley had claimed, did not think the demon was only joking. 

His ocean eyes drifted to a simple file folder box sitting next to the cash register. Right where Uriel had left it.

_ “This contains everything about Raphael that is on file. Obviously, we can’t access the miracle log-- _

_ “--Since when?” _

_ “--ogs.” One eyebrow raises on her corporation. “Archangel miracle logs can only be accessed by the Almighty unless all living Archangels give a written notice to the angel whose files have been requested, and all living Archangels are in agreement it’s necessary to access.” _

_ Aziraphale grimaced. “How benevolent.” He thought of receiving notices for how often he used his miracles. It must be nice to not worry about prying eyes constantly on oneself. _

_ Uriel ignored him. He was used to that. “However, we are able to tell when a major miracle has occurred. We compiled those, as well as any other noticeable dates and notes.” _

According to the file, the last major miracle had happened almost six centuries ago. Prior to that, there was activity but nothing that had pinged their system since before Yeshua’s birth, when the tracking system was new, prone to being overlooked and underused. 

The box had been the first thing Aziraphale had looked through after Crowley had left, his excuse a drawling “You know I don’t read, angel.” 

Aziraphale had not wanted him to leave, but the shades were on and his posture was tense, so Aziraphale ignored his instincts--something that he was quite practiced at pushing down when it came to his best friend--and bid him a fond farewell, and a promise to check in as he worked. 

The box had been meticulously looked through and sorted. After the box he had gone through all versions of his bibles and religious texts, his Torahs and his Kurans. 

The bit about Tobit always amused him, knowing that it was his own stuttering and a misprint that turned Aziraphale’s name to Raphael’s. He remembers short lived feeling of connection when the humans had printed the wrong name, the small thought that somewhere out there an archangel who was building universes had something in common with a lowly principality. He had always thought having Uriel summon him to validate his report had seemed excessive and he had been terrified he had done something wrong, and that the disappointment in her face had been directed towards him, but in hindsight it was more likely she was hoping for news of her brother. 

He thought of her face, again, that time, her eyes intent on his, the clench of her jaw as she dismissed him. Compares it to the slightly smug, mostly detached countenance she wore during the apocalypse. Thinks of her yesterday, tension in the wrinkles in her eyes, the way her lips trembled as she spoke of the archangel. 

Heaven had not always been a horrible place to him. Aziraphale remembers preening under Gabriel’s gaze once, remembers fellow angels laughing with him, Michael leading him through practices with a firm but gentle hand. But he knows that was when he was new, before a flaming sword had been placed in his hand and he had heard the first angry screaming at God. 

He hadn’t lost anyone in the fall because he had never had anyone to lose. 

Aziraphale looks at his notes, and thinks of the first time he saw Uriel, with a gentle smile on her face as she showed him around Heaven. Thinks of her standing with Sandolophon and Michael in Soho. He thinks of a bandstand, the demon walking away and something shattering within. The angel picks up his pen.

There’s work to do.

* * *

The sunlight transitioned to pink and purple and gold before Aziraphale took his next break, standing up and rolling his neck, feeling the ache as it faded away. He glanced at the clock as he tugged his vest back into place. He hadn’t spoken to Crowley, but knowing his friend as he did, he had a feeling that, despite the angel’s reassurance he would be fine and would check in, the demon would arrive soon to see for himself, under the guise of dinner.

There was only the barest hint of warning before the ozone smell hit full force. Aziraphale stopped tidying his desk and looked towards the front door as the wards pulsed and an angel walked in.

“We’re closed, quite sorry!” He called with as much cheer in his voice as he could, hands clasped behind his back.

Michael ignored him as she walked in, looking around, and he remembered she had never been in the bookstore. She turned in a slow circle, eyes cataloging everything in her quicksilver mind.

_ “Remember, Aziraphale, you must never lose your balance. That is the fastest way for a fight to be lost. You will stumble, or fall, or falter, and what does that mean?” _

_ The angel looked at his mentor, her hair still perfectly in place despite the hours of sparring and the strength in her muscles, and hesitated, changing his answer. “It means I lose.” _

_ “That’s wrong.” The disappointment he is expecting doesn’t come, but a gentle smile does. _

“Aziraphale.” It’s a greeting, and he can’t help but remember the last time he saw her, on the street. He scans for another angel but she appears to be alone.

“Michael.” He inclines his head. Six thousand years of habit wants him to ask how he can help her, offer her tea, be helpful and kind and supportive. But she took holy water to Hell to kill Crowley, and so he grits his jaw, inclines his head, and buries those habits down. “What are you here for?”

Her eyes slowly drift to his, her legs beginning to take her lazily around the bookstore. “I understand Uriel was here.” She has power and strength and intelligence, her walk can only be called a prowl. 

Aziraphale casts a glance around to make sure they are alone, and stands his ground. “Yes. Two archangels in two days. Can’t say I’ve missed those days.” If she were anyone, he would say that she faltered at that, but she isn’t and he doesn’t. 

Michael stops at the box on the counter, and strokes one finger down the name on it, lingers for a long second. Then she turns to Aziraphale, eyes flicking behind him to the desk. “Do you think you can find him?”

That throws him off. “I, that is, I am certainly going to try.”

“Don’t.”

His hands fall to his side in shock. “I beg your pardon?” 

“Don’t. Don’t put the effort in, don’t try, don’t find him.” One shoulder lifts in a shrug. “Tell Uriel you have found nothing.”

What in the actual Heaven is going on? Aziraphale stares at her. “But, the deal--”

“The deal will stand. Protection for you, and your demon. Non interference.”

Aziraphale doesn’t understand. “I don’t...I don’t understand. Michael--”

The archangel clenches her fist. “You understand perfectly, I’m sure. It’s a simple order. Do nothing, as I’m sure you have done in your many years on Earth, and reap the benefits. It’s simple.”

He stares. With his eyes and with his Eyes. It was Michael, her true form was within her corporation, but who was _ this _Michael. He’s not sure what his face was, but she took a breath and looked down. 

Outside, the sun sets fully, twilight seeping through the silence.

The bookshop owner takes a deep breath, and lets the sting slide away. This is his home, and he will not let himself be intimidated. But moreso, he doesn’t _ understand _. “You don’t want me to find your brother?”

And oh, his mentor flinches. And as he looks on, she speaks.

* * *

Crowley came, as Aziraphale expected, take out bags already in hand. The angel bustled about, grabbing wine and clearing a spot to eat, and the demon served the food. The domesticity was grounding, something he clung to. After, wine in hand, Crowley poked through his research, commenting and mocking and encouraging, and Aziraphale watched him quietly.

He did not tell him about Michael. He would, perhaps, tell him tomorrow, when he wasn’t the only bright thing in the room. But for now he let himself fall into the patterns they had been building, took comfort in Crowley’s presence and his voice.

Said presence wandered back into the backroom and flopped onto the sofa. “Did ya ever meet him, by the by?”

Aziraphale, concentrating carefully on pouring himself another glass, has quite lost track of the conversation. “Sorry, dear, meet who?”

“You know, the bloke you’re stalking.”

He looks up, offended, barely avoiding spilling his wine. “I beg your pardon!” He does not _ stalk _ anyone, thank you very much!

Crowley gestures his glass in a sloppy circle. “You know, the angel. Raphael.” He pronounces the name carefully, with a lot of enunciation and posh, his go-to for mocking. 

Aziraphale hms, sips. “No, I never did.” Crowley lifts an eyebrow, so he elaborates. “I was created not long before the Rebellion, you know that. I was trained, and I went to lessons, and then the War happened, and immediately after I was sent to the Garden.”

It’s the demon’s turn to hm. “So, even though you have this ‘cosmic connection’ with him, you never met him?”

And oh, despite six thousand years of knowing him, there are still times with Crowley where he can’t read him at all, can’t see what point he may be getting to or if it’s just casual. 

“Oh, stop it, Crowley. There are many angels who share stardust amongst them, as I am sure you know very well.”

“Yeah, but not many have an archangel’s leftovers, do they? Must make you oh so special, right?”

Aziraphale isn’t sure that referring to parts of him as someone’s leftovers is a compliment, archangel or not, but he has no response so he just drinks.

“What about you?”

“Do I have someone’s stardust?”

“No.” Aziraphale blinks. “Well, maybe. Do you? But no. Did you ever meet Raphael?”

Crowley wiggles his way down more comfortably onto the sofa. “Heard rumors, if that’s something you’re interested in.”

Despite himself, he leans forwards. “Rumors?”

“Oh yeah.” Crowley waggles his eyebrows over his glasses. “Apparently, the starsmiths had a lot of dirt on him. You know that other than healing, his other major responsibility was creating, yeah?”

Aziraphale did. It was included in the box, along with many of his creations and projects. Raphael so loved the stars, Gabriel had been under the impression that his brother had been amongst the stars for the past several millennia. 

“Well, the starsmiths swore that he had found an angel he wanted to love. Big L, that love. Said that he worked on a special nebula for them, said that he wanted to make the perfect Nest.” 

“Oh, he was a romantic!”

Crowley scowled at him for that. “What.” Aziraphale blushed, but straightened up.

“Very few of the archangels loved, you know that Crowley. If he wanted to Nest, then he had to really be a romantic at heart.”

He was sure the demon rolled his eyes. Why were his glasses still on? Usually they were gone before dinner. Oh well. 

“Anyways, supposedly the angel he loved wasn’t part of his choir.” Crowley waited in triumphant. “Well? Well, angel, where’s your little scandalized gasp?”

“Was that scandalous back then?”

Crowley pointed a finger. “You, youngster, are ruining the suspense of the story. ‘Was that scandalous back then?’ Know your history, angel, or be doomed to repeat it.” He let out a little cackle.

Aziraphale rolled his eyes. “So is that a yes?”

“Yes, angel, yes it was a yes! Back then the hierarchy was strict, why do you think so many angels rebelled?” Aziraphale opened his mouth. “Don’t answer that, angel, t’was a rheto--wet--don’t need an answer question.” 

They drank some more.

“I suppose that, with so many Fallen, they had to disassemble the choirs in order to make sure all the positions were filled.”

“Yeah, I s’pose so.” The demon nudged his foot. “Wanna hear the sappiest part?” He waited for the nod, and he leaned in. “According the rumors, Raphael was quoted as saying, ‘his love was made just for him’.”

“Oooh, that is romantic.”

“Sappy.”

“Semantics.”

They fell silent for a moment, lost in their thoughts.

“So who was it?”

“What?”

“The one Raphael loved?”

The demon sat up, putting his glass on the table and shrugging. “No one knew. That’s why they call it a rumor, I s’pose.”

They drank some more, conversation continuing onto other topics, until well after midnight, when Crowley finally stood and rolled his neck. “Well, I’m off.”

“Oh! Okay, dear boy, thank you for the food.”

Crowley grinned at him. “Least I could do. I figured with you in research mode, you probably hadn’t spoken to another soul all day.”

Aziraphale’s stomach lurched painfully. He chose to blame it on the wine. He hesitated, opened his mouth to speak, and then shut it.

Crowley, in the center of the bookstore, was illuminated by the night. The sharp lines of him in relief was magical, and Aziraphale felt something inside of him the way he had been ever since that first day of the rest of their lives. It was a slow, unfurling sense of regrowth, of _ yes, yes, it’s not over, there’s time _.

The demon’s had was on the doorknob when Aziraphale’s quiet voice came to him. “Did we ever meet? In Heaven?”

There was a timeless pause, and then, with a soft, final “No” spoken without turning, Crowley was gone.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 10-27-19 A line of Crowley's has been altered due to a reader expressing concern. I appreciate this reader doing so. I write for free, for fun, and to tell a story. I never ever want something I write to remind someone of a bigoted, racist, ignorant, hurtful thing that has happened to them. If i do so, please, please, please let me know. I will clarify or change the wording. If you don't feel comfortable commenting, then you can find me on tumblr at emberfaye. I promise I will listen and do better.

_ There's an albatross around your neck, _

_ All the things you've said, _

_ And the things you've done, _

_ Can you carry it with no regrets, _

_ Can you stand the person you've become _

_ ~~Bastille, the weight of living pt I~~ _

* * *

The routine went like this: Aziraphale spent every day working towards the mystery of the missing archangel. Crowley would go over daily just after lunch, bringing a nibble with him, and listen to Aziraphale bounce ideas around until suppertime. The demon would then insist on leaving the bookstore, uncaring of what stop Aziraphale’s train of thought was on. During dinner there would be no talk of Heaven or Hell--Crowley was most firm on this, once taking the dessert from the angel and not giving it back until he promised--and then after dropping his companion off at the bookstore, Crowley would head out--either to his flat, or to find some chaos. 

It had been a week and a half, and Crowley was slowly and steadily _ losing his blessed mind _. 

The notes the angel had taken were exhaustive. The bookstore had been indefinitely closed, simply for the way the notes had expanded from the angel’s desk to the backroom and then into the main shelves. Aziraphale’s cluttered, cozy, and gentle disorganization had become something unrecognizable. After having gone through all the major religious texts, the angel had moved onto the more occult in nature, and drawn in many historical texts as well to cross study. 

Heaven wasn’t worth making his angel do this. Everytime Crowley went to the bookstore, Aziraphale was taking long to notice him, and more reluctant to enjoy his food. There was a guilty anxiety about him now, as though he shouldn’t linger on earthly pleasures when there was a problem to solve. His theories about what had happened were becoming more stretched and weak as the days passed with no more information, and it was taking a toll on him.

Bugger that, Crowley thought fiercely. It was Heaven’s problem, and fuck them for dropping it on Aziraphale, manipulating him by promising them safety, for playing on his concerns and inability to leave well enough alone. 

Today had been bad. Aziraphale had tried, but something was obviously on his mind and Crowely refused to back down and let dinner become consumed by the search as well, instead deflecting the conversation to a funny story that had happened some decades ago, and let his jaw and stomach clench as Aziraphale simply nodded. He ate, so Crowley was willing to call it a win, but the drive back had been quiet, especially after Crowley had switched the radio off after it had warbled out _ You just got time to say your prayers, Yeah, while you're waiting for the hammer to, hammer to fall. _

That had not helped his sick feeling at all.

He slouched further down his throne, relishing the grounding feeling of the hard corner digging into his back, and rubbed his hand over his eyes tiredly. “Is this your idea of justice?” He let his head fall back and scanned the ceiling, unseeingly. “Let us hope, and then make me lose him anyways?” The demon stood up and grabbed his mister. There wasn’t enough smiting for this to be one of Her ideas. Nah, this had angel stink all over it. Those bastards were planning something, and Aziraphale was going to walk right into it.

And Crowley would lose him, one way or another. To the mystery, or to the answer, it did not matter. Aziraphale would _ know. _And then Aziraphale would be gone. And Crowley would be alone. The plant mister dropped from his hands, and he changed his course mid step. Sleep. He needed to sleep. 

* * *

This is Anthony Crowley. You know what to do. Do it with style.

“--Was wondering if you we were still on for supper today? It’s only that, well, you missed lunch and that’s not like you. I do hope you are on your way. See you soon dear.”

This is Anthony Crowley. You know what to do. Do it with style.

“Oh, drat I never can tell--Well, anyways, as I was saying, I hope you don’t mind that I stopped by. I wanted to make sure you were well. Your plants have been watered. I do hope you wake up soon..I mis...That is, I thought we might go try that lovely new fusion place we drove by some time ago.”

This is Anthony Crowley. You know what to do. Do it with style.

“--So I noticed it while I was at your place, and I really think I have the right of it now. Let me know when you get this, I just need to track down my copy of the former’s work and I think it’ll work.”

This is Anthony Crowley. You know what to do. Do it with style.

“Crowley? I--Oh, nevermind. I’ll tell you when I see you.”

* * *

Crowley threw the door to the bookstore open, heart still in his throat. “ANGEL!” 

There was small gasp and thump from the desk, and Crowley took three steps to reach it. Aziraphale was there, hands still out from where he had dropped his book when startled. “Aziraphale! Are you hurt?” The demon’s hands grasped shoulders, then fluttered down arms before being dropped in favor of pacing around his friend instead. 

“Go--Someone, Crowley, you surprised me! I should be asking you that.”

Safe. Aziraphale was safe. Crowley had left him unprotected for two days but he was safe. His heart was still beating fast but it had returned to the ribcage, and he could breathe again. Or better, he could take a moment and get a drink. A hand passed down his face and he sighed and finally made eye contact with the angel. “I’m so sorry, Angel.”

Aziraphale’s eyes softened. “No, dear. Don’t be. You didn’t do anything wrong.”

“Agree to disagree. But don’t worry, it won’t happen again.” Slowly he was getting control back. “What do you say we go to the Ritz, let me make it up to you properly.”

The angel looked at his book, as if surprised he hadn’t picked it up yet, and quickly remedied it. “I would love to, darling, but unfortunately I was about to step out.” He brightened. “Oh, but now that you’re awake, you can drive! So much easier than taking the bus.” 

“Step out? Drive? Where? Angel, what’s going on?”

The angel continued gathering his items, placing them in a simple, old fashioned suitcase. “Did you not listen to your ansaphone, Crowley?”

“Of course not. I woke up, realized how long I had been how, and came straight here.” 

There was a familiar touched look on Aziraphale’s face. “Oh, _ Crowley _.”

He grunted. “Don’t be like that, angel. Just...where are we going?”

“Lambeth!” Aziraphale patted his bag as he closed it. “Crowley, Raphael is in _ Lambeth _.”

“Ngk.” Crowley was the biggest fool in the world thinking he could relax now. He tried again. “Are...Lambeth? You sure?”

Aziraphale nodded, triumphant. “Yes! It came to me because of my conversation with Michael. It was the magic, you see! Not the miracles, but the power.”

He was never sleeping again. “What--what are you on about?” He paused. “And what conversation with Michael?” He scanned the shop, pacing. “Did she stop by?” The demon scanned the angel with his eyes again, making sure he was fine.

“Oh, stop pacing dear boy. Michael hasn’t been by since that first day after.”

Crowley did stop, head cocking, as Aziraphale seemed to realize what he said at the same time Crowley did. “Pardon?”

“Oh, uhm, that is..” The bookshop owner shifted guiltily, drawing his briefcase closer to his stomach. “I...Well…”

“Maybe we should have this conversation in the car.” Crowley said silkily, trying to keep calm. “We are going to Lambeth, after all. I want to hear all about your visssit from the archangel Michael _ a week ago, that you didn’t TELL me about. _”

Aziraphale frowned and stepped closer to him, reaching out. His hand hovered at Crowley’s bicep for a second, then with another step, his fingers settled instead on the demon’s tense cheek. “I apologize, my dear. I didn’t mean to keep it a secret. It was not on purpose, that is. I was going to tell you, but I wanted to process it first.” Fingers stroked, so gently, just twice before he drew them away. “And then I was so focused, the fact that I didn’t mention it was overlooked. A grave offense, I know, but I...We’re on our side Crowley, and that matters more than anything to me.” The angel continued, sincerity in every inch of him. “It won’t happen again.”

Crowley gazed at him, thankful for his sunglasses. _ I love you. I love you. I love you, do you know that? _ Aziraphale must know that. But it didn’t matter. Six thousand years, there had been a small chance that they could get to have a life together. And now...That window was gone. Crowley drank the angel in--his hands and stance and eyes and hair and shoulders and hips--and sighed. “Get in the car, angel.”

* * *

“Miracles, as you know, are pulled from a being’s power source--Heaven, for myself, and Hell for yourself. Then we have simply our powers. Powers come from our unhuman natures. Just being around things, we affect them. However, you know that the humans have their own powers. They have their own magics, and own abilities. Some can be quite powerful. Michael seemed convinced that Raphael was on earth, and lost forever. But if so, he wouldn’t be using miracles. And they could sense him. Unless there was something else covering his nature with it’s own. ”

Crowley tapped his fingers on the steering wheel. “So, what, you think he’s using a human decoy?”

“It’s possible. But I cross referenced the miracles and flares of power we had recorded with various points in history, and they aligned.” He wiggles excitedly. “It was so obvious from there! I tracked the movement as best I could.”

“To Lambeth.” When the angel nods, Crowley smirks. “So, where in Lambeth are we going?”

Aziraphale stiffens. “I haven’t actually gotten that fair.”

“You what?”

“I’m not sure where! I figured we can go to where it was last lined and perhaps track it down.”

Despite driving well over the already speedy limit, Crowley groans and lets his head hang for long enough that Aziraphale is scolding him. “Az-ira-phale. Are you even sure you can do that?”

There’s an indignant sniff. “I believe I have the proper theory and tools.”

“So, no.”

Aziraphale is quiet. 

It gives him hope. “You know, we don’t _ have _ to do this.” He carefully keeps his eyes on the road, trying to ignore any and all body language from beside him.

“What? Of course we do. We’re so close.” 

“I mean, we can just tell them we can’t find him.” There’s silence. “I mean, they failed. With how little they think of us, they probably wouldn’t be surprised…”

There’s an inhale. “Crowley! Stop it.” He can feel the full weight of Aziraphale’s regard on his face. There’s almost panic and pain in his voice. “I gave my word. I will follow through. This will keep you--you’ll be protected, if I don’t mess this up. I know I’m not the most reliable but I know this will work. ”

Shit. “Angel, no, that’s not what I meant.”

Another sniff. It doesn’t sound indignant. “Just drive.”

* * *

Lambeth is wet, and dark, and rainy, and Crowley wants to leave. They parked at a place called Gabriel’s Wharf, and Crowley almost left right then and there, but Aziraphale had already gotten out of the car. He looked around for a bit, then grabbed something from his bag and fiddled with it. Crowley stepped closer to see.

“A pendulum! A bloody pendulum?!” 

“It’s a perfectly respectable pendulum, Crowley.” The angel started walking. “Hah, here we go.” He wiggled in excitement, smiling at the demon falling into step with him.

“You can do miracles, why are you wasting time with that.” 

“I told you, if you want to find human magic, you look for human magic. It’s like using Shadwell, but with magic.”

“Shadwell was useless, though, wasn’t he?”

“...Oh, that’s rude to say, Crowley.”

“M’demon.”

“Still.”

“Anyways.” Crowley smirked at the car waiting on them to cross and deliberately slowed his strut even more. “If it’s Shadwell like, it’s gonna be useless. Just watch.”

“It will not, Crowley. You’ll see.”

That had been thirty minutes ago. They had wandered up and down the York road and all it’s subsidiaries, going close to the Thames before backtracking just to do an about face.

It was Hell. Crowley was in Hell. Had to be. Wandering around at almost nine, following the love of his existence, who was searching for someone else. Looking adorable and excited and focused and fuck they hadn’t even kissed before Heaven had to come nosing around.

He shivered. They were spared most of the river breeze by the buildings, but still. He wanted to be back at the bookstore, with wine in hand and heart in his eyes as he bantered with Aziraphale. He wanted to get back to their side, not fiddling with Heaven’s dirty work.

“Any luck?” Aziraphale was standing at a crossroads as Crowley slinked next to him. Maybe he could tempt him with a good vintage and some sushi...

“I can’t seem to make sense of this...It seems like it is leaning this way, but when I put it that way, it seems to just want to go the other way.”

“Hmm.” Crowley wanted to make a comment about science and elasticity, but refrained. Aziraphale’s shoulders were tensed, and there was a line between his eyes that only came out when he was on the verge of frustration. Instead, he bumped their shoulders together. “You’re clever. I’m positive you can figure it out.” 

The smile he got back wasn’t bright, it was so soft that Crowley couldn’t move for a whole minute, just watching Aziraphale pick his direction, wiggle, and set off with a jaunt.

Yeah, Hell. Worth it though.

It wasn’t long after that when Aziraphale cut off from the main roads and turned down into a sketchy little alley. Crowley quickened his steps to catch up. “Angel, what--” 

“Crowley, are you seeing this?” The angel’s voice is slightly breathless. 

Crowley lifts his sunglasses, then lets them fall back down. “Yeah. Yeah I am.”

By all rights, this should just be a normal alley way, a simple connection to roads exisiting between two buildings. And yet.

And yet, there’s a ton of occult energy surrounding a humble one story building that, according to the maps, should not exist. It is wide enough for a door and a window (curtains drawn) and brick to be seen. Crowley is infernal. He was born in Heaven and thrown into the fires of Hell and has existed somewhere in between for six thousands years. And this simple _ human _ magic is telling his eyes that he sees nothing, that there is nothing here, and to turn around and keep walking. There are wards that make the house and anyone inside shimmer as though they were nothing but ripples in water, and shielding the nature even to Crowley.

His throat is dry. “You did it.”

Aziraphale shakes his head, seems to shake himself out. “We don’t know that yet, dear.” He throws his shoulders back, nods to himself, and strides forward, knocking on the door before Crowley can follow. 

The demon quickly catches up, hissing, “What, just like that?” And Aziraphale thought Crowley sped forward...

They wait for the echo of Aziraphale’s knocks to fade, and just as Aziraphale raises his hand again, there’s a click.

And then the door is opened, and dark blue eyes are meeting Aziraphale’s, then Crowley’s. They are set in a tired face, framed with soft auburn hair. There’s still no sense of power or grace, but the smell of ozone catches Crowley’s noise, and he wants to grab Aziraphale, wants to run to the bentley, the bookshop, the stars. 

But it’s too late. “R--Raphael?” Aziraphale squeaks out, voice remarkably steady for someone who has just met his soulmate.

The archangel blinks in surprise, then inhales. “Do I know you?” His ocean eyes take in Aziraphale again, this time on all planes, and then flit to Crowley. He gasps. “You’re--”

“Long time no see. Can we come in?” Crowley does not want to hear _ that name _ ever again. 

Raphael hesitates, looking longer at Aziraphale. “I’ll have to adjust the wards. Give me one minute.” The door shuts. 

There’s so much to say and no time. “You did it.” He repeats, because he wants Aziraphale to know, Aziraphale solved it. Somehow. He’s clever and wise and beautiful and Crowley loves him.

Aziraphale reaches back, blindly, and clasps his hand with Crowley. His shoulders exhale and he shoots Crowley a glance, soft under his eyelashes. “We’re almost done, and then we can go home, dear.”

The door swings open and saves Aziraphale from seeing the crestfallen look on his demon’s face.

* * *

Raphael’s home consists of one room, with one door and one window. There’s a small kitchen area, a long couch with a soft looking blanket folded atop it, a bookshelf, and the table the two angels and demon are currently sitting at. 

Crowley looks around. There’s a few books, covers turned away, and various occult items. “Nice place you got here.”

Raphael looks around and smiles shyly. “It’s not much, but it’s home.”

“It’s very cozy,” Aziraphale enthuses, “And very cleverly placed. The pendulum did not want to get us here, but we managed!”

The older angel looks amused. “Pendulum?”

There’s a fetching blush on Aziraphale’s face, and he glances at Crowley and then the table. “Well, yes. You see, there was no real way to find you using the usual methods, so I used a variety of human occult methods and historical documents to trace your presence through the years.”

“Impressive.” Raphael raises an eyebrow. “And...why are you tracking me, Principality?”

“Oh! Yes, uhm, I can, see…”

Crowley rolls his eyes. “Uriel asked him to. Apparently Heaven figured out you’ve been misplaced for a couple millenia and asked Aziraphale here for assistance because they can’t do it themselves.”

He gets two angel looks, and can’t decipher either. 

Raphael clears his throat, glances up. “I see. It’s good to know…” He trails off. 

The bookstore owner watches him, compassion clear in his face. “They miss you very much. All of them. They will be very relieved to know you are well.”

The archangel smiles at Aziraphale, and Aziraphale beams back.

Crowley wants to scream. Instead, he props his head on his hand and smiles broadly. Too broad, some might say uncomfortably. “So, what happened?”

“Crowley! You can’t just ask that!” Aziraphale whispers heatedly under his breath, as though the archangel isn’t right next to him. 

The demon shrugs, unrepentant. “Maybe you can’t, but you’ve gotta be curious, right?” The angel bites his lip, trying (and failing) to keep his eyes from darting to the archangel. “And besides, once you go contact them, you really think you’ll find out anything?” He shakes his head. “Nope, we get one chance, may as well ask the source, hm?” He grins and leans closer to Raphael. “So, you wanna tell us?”

Raphael throws his head back and laughs. “You haven’t changed at all, S--Crowley.” He smiles at them. “Sure, why not?”

Crowley elbows Aziraphale. “See what happens when you ask nicely?”

There’s a frown (pout, but crowley won’t allow himself to acknowledge that) on the angel’s face, but his eyes are twinkling. “What part of that was asking nicely?”

“Semantics, angel. Pay attention, our host is telling a story.” They turn back to the host.

Said host looks bemused and vaguely distant. “Well, I suppose, it started because I fell.”

“You Fell?!”

Raphael shakes his head. “Not Fell, I fell. From Heaven to Earth. It hurt, a lot. The landing knocked me out for oh, centuries. By the time I realized I recovered enough to get back up, I stumbled in between a dueling angel and demon.” He pauses. “That did not end well for anyone.” His face darkens for a moment, and his eyes flit between them before landing on the table, and something between Crowley’s shoulders tighten. Raphael picks his next words carefully, and Crowley can’t help but feel something is wrong. “I crawled into a cave to try to heal, and then my power--my magics---didn’t work right when I awoke.”

Aziraphale’s eyes are wide. “That’s sounds so awful. So that’s why the earth spells?”

Raphael nods, and Crowley doesn’t feel him lying, but _ something _ doesn’t feel right. The wards are confusing his senses. He listens to the two chat a bit more.

“Oh! I really should go contact Uriel!”

Raphael inhaled sharply.

Aziraphale leaned back. “Unless...you don’t want to?”

“No! It’s not that. It’s just…” Raphael’s voice was so quiet and pained. “It’s been a very long time. I’ve missed them.”

Crowley could tell he was being sincere, and still wanted to gag. Aziraphale looked like he had just seen the most perfect thing ever. Of course, that’s definitely not why Crowley felt like gagging. 

“It’ll have to be done outside the wards. I won’t be but one tick.” He smiles at Raphael, then Crowley, and walks outside.

They watch him go. Crowley at least assumes they both do, since when Crowley turns back around Raphael is looking at the door with ...with _ some emotion _ on his face.

“Got any alcohol?”

That snaps him out of it. “Pardon?”

“Alcohol. Booze. Spirits. Got any?”

Raphael shakes his head. “I don’t usually do that at home.” 

“Oh.” 

Crowley is being studied, and he doesn’t like it, so he studies Raphael right back. Long hair, still. It’s a bit shorter, just past shoulder blades rather than hip length, loosely braided instead of loose and tangled. He wears simple slacks and a comfortable looking blazer. His shoes look fancy, like something Crowley would see in the magazines he orders to manifest his clothes. He doesn’t bother Seeing the true form, he had tried earlier and couldn’t. It was hiding somehow.

“Incredible. Despite Falling, you’re still...so you.”

“What else am I supposed to be, a duck?” Crowley intends it to be insulting but it’s snarky instead, and Raphael relaxes. Whoops.

“I just...I never thought I would see you again. Most of the starsmiths were so close with Lucifer, and then the Falling began, and then I fell, and just…” He breaks off. “It’s just...really good to see a friendly face.”

Fuck. How long had Raphael been alone? Crowley couldn’t help but feel sorry for him. Raphael had always been a decent angel, caring and funny, willing to listen and ready to help. It wasn’t his fault Aziraphale had literally been made for him. They shared stardust and everything. 

Crowley forced up a small smile. “Can’t say much of my face, but I’m glad you’re not dead, Raphael.”

Raphael...beamed. There was no other word for it, and for a moment Crowley could see, just a bit, some of Aziraphale in that expression. 

“Crowley…” When had the angel gotten closer? “Your face is just fine.” And suddenly there was a pressure on Crowley’s shoulder, and a matching one on his lips, and what the fuck was happening.

He was being kissed, that’s what. Raphael had scooted closer, leaned in, and just. Kissed him.

How the hell did he manage it so fast, was Crowley’s only thought. The demon hadn’t managed it in six thousand years, in the countdown to Armageddon, in the two hundred odd days after. Maybe he should ask Raphael what the secret was.

“Oh! Sorry!” The door had opened without them noticing. “I’ll just, give you a moment, jolly good!” It swung shut.

Crowley returned to himself, wrenching his whole body away as he stood up, chair clattering over. Raphael had kissed him and Aziraphale had seen it and then left. He ignored Raphael’s sputterings and charged out the door. 

Aziraphale was halfway down the alley when Crowley caught up, slamming him against the wall with his momentum as he tried to stop. One hand clutched the angel’s shoulders, the other cradled and shielded the blonde head. Aziraphale’s eyes were bright blue, hurt and wet and confused. 

“Not me!” Crowley was breathing hard, trying to think while also lost in those eyes. “He kissed me. I didn’t---I wouldn’t---No. Not me. Not him.” Aziraphale was blinking, his hands twitching at his sides. “Angel. Not him.” Was he shaking? Didn’t matter. Did Aziraphale believe him? Understand him? 

“Aziraphale, what is it about you that makes people decide to push you up against a wall?” Uriel’s voice was dry and extremely unwelcome.

“At least Crowley doesn’t sucker punch me while I’m there, Uriel.”

Crowley lets go of his angel and rounds on Uriel, hissing. “You punched Aziraphale?”

Uriel holds her arms up placatingly. “It wasn’t me.” She looks at the house. “Is…”

Aziraphale nods, straightening his clothes. “Yes, Raphael is in there.”

Uriel nods and hurries to it, knocking. 

Crowley pointedly ignores the voices and focuses on Aziraphale. “Who punched you?”

“Crowley, dear, it doesn’t matter, it’s past.”

“So’s most of history but people still bother with it. Who.”

The angel hesitates, then looks away. “Sandalophon.” Crowley hisses the name. “It was...It was shortly before I got myself discorporated, and it doesn’t matter anymore. Bygones and all that.”

Crowley nods, content to revisit it later. He pauses. Aziraphale won’t look at him. “....Angel?”

Aziraphale tenses, then looks at him through his lashes. He looks so fragile. Crowley can’t help but feel that bad feeling, the urge to just bundle him in his arms and disappear, keep him safe. 

The angel is studying, looking...at his lips. Fuck. What is Crowley supposed to do with that. He stands there.

Aziraphale turns fully, and bites his own lip. That’s a bit unfair of the angel. “...Not him?”

He shakes his head, takes a step closer, and then there’s a scream, the sound of glass breaking, and the feel of arms wrapping around him and a body slammed against his, ozone in his face.

He’s cradled in Raphael’s arms, staring over his shoulders as Aziraphale gets further away, watching them flying away until something huge and dark and _ wrong _ emerges from the window and jumps at Aziraphale.

“AZIRAPHALE!”

He twists and writhes and squirms in the archangel’s arms, but it’s like fighting a vise. He kicks and bite and snarls blindly, and then they are landing on a roof and Crowley is ready to take his wings out, turns to jump back to that alleyway. A solid grip on his wrist stops him, and he tries and fails to wrench away. 

“Go back! We have to go back!”

Raphael shakes his head. He has glass shards in his hair and they twinkle like starlight. “They’ll be alright, Crowley. Uriel may not look like it but she’s fierce.” 

“Aziraphale is there! With that, what was that thing?” Is he crying? He’s so angry and panicked he might well could be.

The archangel looks back, worried, but then he squeezes in what is meant to be a comforting manner. “Your friend is a Principality, they are made to fight. Given a flaming sword and everything.”

Crowley sobs out a laugh. “Right. Yeah. Flaming sword. He doesn’t have one.”

“He what?”

The demon shoves at Raphael, again and again with each word. “He gave it away! He hates fighting and he hates being attacked and he hates being discorporated. Let go!” He tries again to jerk away, run to the edge of the roof. “Aziraphale!”

Raphael doesn’t, though he’s look a little gobsmacked. “He’s still made for battle, sword or no. You are not, you’re a liability like me.”

Crowley hisses, spreads his wings. “If he gets killed you’ll see what kind of liability I can be.” It’s not his best threat, it may not even be a threat, but Crowley has no ability to talk when he’s planning the logistics of gnawing his own arm in order to fly away.

Luckily, it doesn’t come to that. Raphael tightens his hold and then points. “Look!”

Two shapes are flying towards them. In the seconds it takes for them to land Crowley feels like he’s vibrating out of his skin. Uriel lands elegantly, wings flaring, short sword in hand. Her shield is not manifested. 

Aziraphale lands hard beside her, falling to his knees and one hand catching him.

Crowley succeeds in tearing his arm away now and rushes towards him. “Aziraphale!” He gets his hands underneath and helps lift him.

“Crowley, you’re okay!” The angel grimaces. “Be careful dear, it’s rather sticky.”

“What is?” His eyes travel to Aziraphale’s other hand, which is holding most of his chest closed. The gold is everywhere, despite blending in rather well with his tartan and cream color scheme.


End file.
